


Studies of Morbidity

by Yusabi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, Dark!Molly, Djinni & Genies, F/M, Ghouls, Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration, Happy halloween, Molly is a creature of the night, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Protective!Sherlock, Sherlock is fascinated, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, molly is so used to rejection she spends some time in denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusabi/pseuds/Yusabi
Summary: Molly has achieved the best she could ask for-- a fulfilling job, a safe home of her own, an exciting and enriched life, and best of all, a steady source of food.Food is everywhere, but options are scant, and a young Ghoul can't wish for better than a morgue, where body parts can come in without ever coming back out. It only makes sense that the smartest oaf in the world would nearly ruin everything for her just to be petty.





	1. Knives Out

**Author's Note:**

> I see plenty of Supernatural Being AU's, but none of them have ever done a take on the mythos of Ghouls. It only makes proper for Halloween that someone fix that. Unbeta'd and unchecked.

_I want you to know_   
_He’s not coming back_   
_His blood is frozen_   
_Still there is no point letting it go to waste_ _  
_ \- Knives Out, Radiohead

 

It took Sherlock less than ten seconds to liberate the door from its lock, and fifteen minutes to make a silent, unnoticed retreat to the quiet hallways of St. Barts. He disliked using the back entrance-- a waste of time, but a necessary precaution. He had tried not to make a habit of breaking into St. Barts, given that it was staffed day and night, especially in the years since he had secured resident Pathologist Molly Hooper’s assistance. Although he was convinced it was the thickly laid charm that had secured her consent, she had often expressed a flattering level of curiosity towards his experiments, even offering up a surprising knowledge of graduate-level Chemistry.   
  
Normally, they had a working relationship that consisted of her utmost cooperation-- something of which she seemed to be short of lately. He had briefly considered her menstruation cycle, but it was unlikely. A look at her medical forms from time to time confirmed she was on a cervical implant birth control. She was unlikely to even have periods. He’d then considered her family, but her father had died years previously and her mother was, to his knowledge, in good health.   
  
The female mindset was a mystery to him. He had relied on her utmost understanding when it came to his retrieval of body parts and experiments, which is why he failed to understand.   
  
All of these details had made relieving Dr. Hooper of excess, unmissed body parts a somewhat mutual benefit. It helped that she had always listened single-mindedly to the results of his often grotesquely detailed experiments. Things that had left John running for the toilet, and she never batted an eye until a week previous.   
  
She had made a rather disturbing and firm change of heart, and despite his attempts to reason with her, ploy for her sympathies, or bend her to him, she had refused.

  
“Why may I not have the eyes, Molly?” He had pulled his best pout. “You have no use for them! I have been long-suffering for a set of eyes with this _specific_ patterning of Heterochromia Iridi-- ”   
  
Her voice was icy when she interrupted him. “No! I said no before! Do you not understand basic consent, Sherlock?”   
  
“Why do you insist on this hoarding of crucial resources?” Exasperated, he muttered, “You’re unlikely to ever _use_  --”   
  
He had seen a flash of fire in her eyes, something fierce, and his jaw snapped shut of its own accord. Her fists clenched, and he was immediately aware that he had lost the last scrap of control over the situation he’d had.   
  
She opened her mouth to make a rebuttal, but he saw indecision ripple across her features. Apparently deciding better of it, she walked around him, shoulders tense and predatory, mouth etched in a frown. She narrowed her eyes at him when he opened his mouth, slowing her walk to watch him. Then she had veered to her desk and sat down, turning her attention elsewhere. A clear dismissal.   
  
“I’m not going to participate in this argument anymore. I-I just can’t. Go home, please.”   
  
So he had. Immediate appeasement was the only way he’d be able to salvage the situation later on. For now, however, he was coming back to collect what had been denied.   
  
Sherlock was able to avoid the staff, a trickier thing to do when one was also avoiding the security cameras as much as possible, but he managed. He had swiped Molly’s key card during an earlier visit that day, which served to greatly improve his mobility throughout St. Barts. He was aware of her habits of switching a few bags of the coffee Mike brought in for better brands that overstressed Doctors brought in and then forgot about. With the right knowledge, food and drink of any variety could be claimed from other wings of the hospital. She also often worked the most night shifts, allowing her to mingle with her fellow evening denizens during her breaks and pilfer forgotten food. Her key card pattern was, very sloppily, everywhere in the hospital because of this. His use of it would bring up no red flags.   
  
It was nearly three a.m. when he reached the basement; while not his best time, he still had room to minimize his chances of running into someone he shouldn’t.   
  
Sherlock traversed the familiar halls of the basement with an odd weight in his stomach. The fluorescein lights bore down a dull, yellowish-green glow he had never personally preferred. It cast the surrounding rooms in darkness and bathed the white, tacky tiles, bringing out the full effect of any old, yellowed stains.   
  
It only added to the general morbid stench of the area, one he hardly noticed anymore. The chilly, almost chemically clean scent of bleach mingled with the unbidden stench of plasticized rot, was undeniably comfortable. It made sense that he would feel so, given that it had become his most habitual action over the last few years. Trips to this area of the hospital had become more frequent than trips to his own bed.   
  
The aura had eventually transformed as he grew closer to Molly’s morgue, showing the obvious care the St. Barts pathologists took in their work. The hallways hung with pictures of the team over the years, mostly familiar faces, but some were from times far before them, yet still honored. Accomplishments, metals, and awards were kept visible from their offices, each of which had been made into a cozy home in their own way. Excerpts taken from articles were scattered between, most of them from Molly and Mike Stamford.   
  
A team, with pride in their work. Sherlock clamped down a flash of guilt before he was able to even properly name it, continuing in the dim lights towards his destination. Surely, even if Molly found out, she would eventually forgive him for such a small slight.   
  
Except, he registered that the lights were on in Molly’s office. It was just the desk lamp, but he moved closer to discover the door cracked ajar with no one inside. _Odd_ … odd, but _very interesting_ . He then recognized the feeling of upset in his stomach, unsure how to combat the discomfort. His senses screamed at him to be alert, that something was not as it seemed.   
  
Yet, as he looked around, he saw nothing unordinary. Some part of the puzzle was missing; the issue was, _what was it?_   
  
He noticed a file open on her desk, but no keys or purse. The door left open, the lights on. He had never known Molly to be sloppy-- either she was removed forcefully without the ability to clean up her workspace, or she intended to come back, and quite soon. Her chair was approximately a foot away from the desk, enough space for a woman of her size to push away from the desk and stand. A few drawers on her desk were opened and messy, suggesting she had been searching for something.   
  
Her keycard. Something like relief settled within him, quieting the churn of his gut. Yet, it did not erase it.   
  
He ignored it. She was nowhere to be seen. This would be his best chance, and since a week of prodding had done him no good, if he couldn’t get them tonight, the sample would be too degraded to work with before he could try again. He would take the risk, and then, to soothe his own ego, confirm that Molly was indeed safe.   
  
Sherlock did a thorough check of every room, leaving the morgue itself for last. After he had failed to find her, and he saw no sign of her coming down the hallways anytime soon, he swiped her keycard. He pressed his fingers against the crack of the door as he entered, muffling the click of the metal mechanism. With the quiet brush of his coat against the wall, he slipped inside and pressed the door shut once more. He paused inside, senses reaching out for any minute sound or scrap of movement, and he found nothing. Revelling in his success only for the moment, Sherlock quickly rushed to the wall on the side of the room, throwing open one of the freezer containers to rifle through. When he didn’t immediately find them among the pre-assorted display of excess parts, he growled, crouching to go through the freezer beneath it.   
  
He ripped through the entirety of the north-side wall’s freezers, only to find everything but. Consumed in his search, he didn’t notice the first time his growl was returned.   
  
When he stood to go through the next freezer, he stopped. A shadow was draped over his person, engulfing his own, and he only had a moment to process it before he flipped himself around. He was prepared for it to be Molly, and a thousand excuses sprang to his lips, some of them based on truths, others well-concocted lies. He always revealed the truth to her in the end, and since his results were always the first priority, what was a white lie to help it along?   
  
Then, his brain caught up with his eyes, all mental preparations ceased, and his heart seized with fascination and fear. Was he hallucinating? He mentally notched the symptoms of psychosis, immediately deciding that no, this was very real. He stood with his back to the freezer, looking at a tall, thin creature that stood barely shorter than him. He moved back jerkily in surprise, and it released a low, guttural snarl.

 

To his surprise, it did not move. When it made no obvious move to attack, he decided quickly the growling was a warning while it decided what to do with him-- if he moved, he would certainly come to harm. He instead forced himself to relax, permitting his eyes a quick, cursory glance over the figure.   
  
By the swell of hips, and the curve of two milky colored breasts, he decided _it_ was indeed a _she_ . She was humanoid, with exception to the papery-thin, white complexion, leading to near-translucent, luminescent smooth skin. In the darkness, her form gave off a pale, ghost-like, white bioluminescent glow. If not for the soft swell of breasts marked by two rose-pink buds, and a blood-red, almost frost-bitten color on the tips of her fingers, toes, nose, lips, cheeks, eyelids, knees, and elbows, he could find no other distinguishable color besides some freckling. The little grey dots against white skin spanned the bridge of her nose, her elbows, and knees.   
  
The lines of her face were especially sharp. She had pointed cheekbones and slanted, catlike eyes with black sclera. A set of razor-fine teeth stretched across bloody lips curled in his direction. Impossibly long and matted, glossy brown hair was tucked behind small, angled, elfish ears. He reached out to touch it, confirmation of what his eyes told, only to receive a warning snap of teeth.   
  
It seemed that only then he registered the blood, dark and smeared down her maw, flicking down her neck in red licks. Her fingers stretched into sharp claws, some dried flakes crusting over her pale wrists. Whatever it was, it was obvious he had caught her during a feeding. He felt a stab of horror, an urge to flee, and it was once again triumphed by the compulsion to _observe_.

 

The being chose then to refocus its attention, and Sherlock waited silently. It-- _she_ , he corrected, didn’t seem overly aggressive. The longer he stood still, the more he realized it was giving him liberty to run, however to what purpose? Perhaps it was aware of his own non-aggression, however, some animals waited for prey to give chase. Except this was no animal. A creature, surely, but humanoid and sentient. It was possible he would be able to use the limited distance to fight, some part of him noted, but he chose to instead try engaging her in speech.   
  
He chose soft and non-threatening, capturing her black eyes against his. “Do you _understand_ me?”   
  
Sherlock received no immediate reply, but her snarl dropped away and her eyes widened. Her lips then curled in pleasure, and she blinked lazily at him. Momentarily, he relaxed, which was his mistake.   
  
The female creature quickly darted forward, almost as if impulsively, her face aimed towards his throat. His back bent painfully against the counter to provide distance, but she growled and snapped her teeth again, a show of dominance. Appearing irritated, she waited for Sherlock to slide back down and stand straight again. She then huffed before approaching slowly, only to press her nose to his throat.

He felt the cold wetness of the blood and viscera as it transferred off of her face onto him. The woman-thing drew in a deep, quiet breath against his skin, and he felt the feather-light brush of eyelashes fluttering closed. Nearly a minute passed before it pulled back, seemingly satisfied.   
  
_“Kin,”_ she sighed happily.   
  
Out of curiosity, he slowly lifted a hand to it. Almost immediately, she put her cheek in his hand, rubbing against with a sound he would nearly classify as a purr. Unable to decide if he should incapacitate it and call Mycroft, or milk this sudden silent permission to observe, Sherlock instead texted John behind his back to call Mycroft if he didn’t return in two hours’ time.   
  
Suddenly, then, it ran quickly around the corner and then came back with an assortment of body parts, including one of the eyes he had shown up for in the first place. It sat down across from him, and he almost cried out in protest when the unnamed being popped it on her tongue. He heard the first crunch, the juicy pop of it in her mouth before intraocular fluid began dripping down her lips.

  
When he tried to move for the door, it let out a deafening shriek of displeasure, but so did every other action he attempted to make.   
  
“Very well, then,” he sighed. H e tried sitting on the floor, which seemed to be allowed.   
  
“If you’d tell me what it is you’d like from me, this process would be easier for both of us,” Sherlock drawled, feeling a scratch of irritation. He was met by a look of derision from Her, until she seemed to decide she was more hungry than contemptuous.     


When she seemed to trust that Sherlock was settled, she dug into her meal with her nails, expertly scraping off meat from a pair of ribs with her fingernails before dropping the piece whole in her mouth. The other eyeball he’d wanted made an appearance next, and he silently mourned it as she devoured it without a second thought. Then, as if an endless pit, she messily ate her way through someone’s thigh, and a pair of lungs. Several other unpalatable courses made their way into her mouth. She had continued to eat until every last morsel was gone, licking up juices from her fingers.

 

Every once in awhile, she would consider a piece of intestine or fat, and then push it towards him in what he took to be an offering. He did not reject it, although he made no move to accept it either, and every time, she would eventually huff and take it back, visually disappointed. With the floor covered in gore and viscera, but picked clean of the larger bits, she seemed to finally tire.   
  
Bloodied and full, the woman crawled into his lap, and then like a supine cat, stretched gracefully. She then allowed him a moment to shift, and when he was done, rearranged herself until her body curled into his. He felt the chill of her bare skin against the thin fabric of his shirt. Curious, he gently pressed his hand against the pearlescent white flesh of bicep, only to pull away in surprise. When he moved to repeat the experiment, he heard her voice slowly raise in a snarl.   
  
Wisely, he decided to drop his hand.   
  
That pacified the woman-creature, and he counted the minutes as her body grew more still, her already slowed breath retreating even further. He had long entertained the notion of all things being possible-- if a rational explanation could not be found, the only way to proceed was to consider the irrational. So, as he watched the clock he considered the possibilities.   
  
By minute seven, he found her to be asleep.

 

The first and most obvious conclusion was that it was not human.  
  
He tested that by slowly raising his hand once more, and with an almost imperceptibly feather-like touch, pressed his fingers to her skin. It was still a mild shock, though one he managed this time. Her skin felt cold as snow, yet when he pressed his fingers to the inside of her wrist, there was a pulse. Though slow, it was veritably steady and strong. Running a finger up the length of her arm erupted a rise of goosebumps. Her skin was sensitive in a way at least similar to human physiology, and though cold, was still soft, tender.   
  
Her hair felt human, soft except for the mattes that had tangled up with various bodily fluids. He accidentally nicked his thumb while pulling back her lips to expose two sharp rows of teeth.   
  
Then, she began to change. The angular, pointed nose shifted into a small button nose. Her skin tone warmed, and the frost-bitten red faded into a rosy pink, the hair grew shorter, the cheekbones softened, and weirdest of all-- she shrank. Sherlock became speechless. He felt the beginnings of something his thoughts helpfully categorized as a panic attack, but he mentally refused it, slamming doors and locking the chains behind him as he scrabbled for some sense.   
  
The transformation continued until he was holding a warm-blooded, five-foot-five human woman. One covered in blood. He had a bloodied woman in his arms; a naked bloodied woman that he’d watched consume body parts in a form entirely separate from this one.   
  
_A woman that had suddenly become one-hundred percent more interesting._   
  
Molly Hooper licked her red-stained lips and shifted in her sleep, and Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket. He and Molly would need some time to discuss the events of the night, and he had a very comprehensive list of queries growing in the back of his mind.   
  
_Cancel that, John. The situation has been resolved. Don’t expect me tomorrow -- S. H._   
  
_Sherlock, it’s 4 A.M. You wanted me to actually get Mycroft, earlier? What have you done? What the hell did you do? -- J. W._   



	2. I don't remember a thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly scramble to put things in order, and some very important questions are asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wonderful response to the first chapter! Thanks for checking it out and deciding to stick along for the ride-- it's going to be a doozy.

_Here it comes  
_ _T_ _he unavoidable sun weighs in my head  
_ _And what the hell have I done  
_ _And you know  
_ _I don’t remember a thing,  
_ _I don’t remember a thing_

\-- _The Sun_ , Naked and Famous  


 

_Molly floated on a haze, an aimless drift through the darkness. She was minutely aware of the sensations of her surroundings, reveling in their sweet comforts. Content, she relaxed into the shield of weight at her back, the feeling of fingers pressing into her bicep. A warmth was wrapped around her middle and it extended the full length of her upper body. She curled happily into whatever it was, pressing her nose against an expanse of silky fabric leading to the most wonderful scent. It was familiar in a way, enough to allow herself to sink into formless luxury…_

_She felt as though she had been afloat for an indescribable amount of time, a true rest that only came from gorging her appetite. Possibly, she would have allowed herself to stay like that forever, but the lumpy ground beneath her refused to still. Determined to stay rooted exactly where she was, Molly lazily flicked out an arm to reach for the source of the disturbance, but she was quickly intercepted by the feeling of fingers closing around her wrist._ _  
_ _  
_ _Within that moment, her brain struggled fiercely to stay unconscious, and her senses only stretched to the pleasant warmth of…_ _  
_  
_“...olly.”_   
  
Oh.  
  
Molly tried to rub her eyes, the events of the night slowly bleeding through to consciousness. Unable to find her keycard, she’d gone through every single drawer in her desk, desperate and starving. After locating her spare and praising her luck, she had stumbled into the morgue and set aside the parts she’d been storing for weeks. She had the opening shift, and she’d known she wouldn’t be able to wait another day to take her store home because if Sherlock had come in one more time wheedling her for her food, she might not have let him leave.  
  
“Molly.”

Oh, no.  
  
Honestly, what right did he have to come into her territory and act like such an oaf? Well, a tall, brilliant… _fit_ oaf-- that had nearly assured his own certain death with his own whining, and he seemed he determined to cross over to her dreams, too. Still bordering the edges of unconsciousness, she attempted to roll over and ignore him.  
  
“Molly Hooper.” His voice became firm, and this time, she was up.  
  
“Awake, awake,” she yawned, mostly to herself, before stretching her body vertical. She automatically reached down as a heavy piece of fabric began to slide down her arm, tugging it back up. The ground shifted beneath her again, and she slid her legs out from under her to meet the carpet of her bedroom, only to find there was none. Finally, she realized what was wrong when her skin touched cold tile.  
  
Oh, no. This wasn’t a dream at all.  
  
Opening her eyes presented her with a war zone, and her stomach sank. Thankfully, while most of the carnage had stuck to the floors, dried bits of red and pink, both liquid and chunky, were everywhere. It was about forty-five minutes worth of damage that she’d be able to tackle with a mop and some bleach, but she’d have to force herself up to meet the consequences of the day, first. There were no alarm bells, she wasn’t in a government facility; Molly was very much alive and untouched. She could handle some clean-up.

  
Which led her to problem number two. She turned to face Sherlock, wishing the entire time that it was a trick of the mind. Her eyes met his, and she tried briefly to read an immovable wall. Horror dawned on her.  
  
“You saw me naked,” she squeaked.  
  
“I--” A look of disbelief crossed over his face, and the mask cracked. Sherlock blinked at her before he slowly replied, unsure, “Yes, I did?”  
  
Molly read his confusion and swallowed heavily. “Right. Probably not your highest concern at the mo.”  
  
He shrugged, “I assure you, it was not by choice. I also covered your body, did I not?”  
  
She fell silent and stood on shaky legs, pulling Sherlock’s coat even tighter across her body. She felt the sting of self-consciousness, which only made everything feel like it had gone from bad to worse. It made no sense to feel that way. After all, she was alive. She could have woken up to much worse. Sherlock had seen it all, so of course a bit of skin meant nothing, now.

  
“Yeah, you did,” she murmured in assent. “You aren’t going to call Mycroft, are you?”  
  
“On you, Molly? Oh, I wouldn’t _dream_ of such a thing,” Sherlock assured dryly, groaning as he moved limbs heavy from their previous entrapment. He stretched to his feet, and exhaustion had paled his skin, but his eyes shone with a spark of fascination. “I am, however, interested in exploring the exact nature of the… _proclivities_ you displayed earlier.”  
  
“Um, yeah. I figured that. You’re not injured at all?”  
  
“I am not. Should I be?”  
  
She wanted to answer that he would always, _always_ be safe with her, that she had control over herself. Most of the time, that was true, but night previous had scared her more than she was willing to admit. When she stayed silent, the amusement he’d shown just before suddenly dropped back again into an impenetrable mask, and she flinched. Molly noticed the dynamic shift immediately, aware she was no longer the only predator in the room.  
  
He let it drop, so she followed his lead.  
  
She worked hard to act far more calmly than she felt, walking over to small closet at the far end of the room. He made no moves to leave as she put distance between them, which was reassuring, and politely turned his head away when she gingerly set his coat aside in favor of cleaning herself up. When she couldn’t find anything left on her body, dried or otherwise, she pulled out a set of clothes and proceeded to dress into nursing scrubs.  
  
Then, she threw over a sheet that looked more like a HAZMAT suit, and he frowned.  
  
“Lab accidents happen,” she supplied awkwardly, adding a layer of gloves.

“You find yourself in this position often?” His question was markedly curious. Molly sighed with frustration, and Sherlock watched her carefully button the edges of the suit down. She put on goggles next, followed by a mask, and then she was off to find an extra set.

“No, of course not! Sometimes bodies explode, usually only during the summer. Heavily bloated corpses also appear from time to time, having been left rotting for far longer than they should have been. I-I mean, I’m not usually lurking around, waiting for opportunities to... I mean--” She cut herself off and briskly veered towards him, forcefully shoving a set of protective gear into his arms. “Just put that on, okay?”  
  
He did as he was told silently, and she chose to take that as a sign that he was on-board.  
  
“Right. So, the camera comes out of the loop at seven in the morning, which means we have…” She glanced at the clock. “...only an hour, maybe an hour and a half to clean this up.”  
  
Molly quickly managed to dig out various chemical cleaners from throughout the room, along with a set of mops. She considered her options briefly but decided to dump the bottles directly on the floor.    
  
“We?” He lifted an eyebrow, and she was quick to appear in front of him, mop in hand, faster than she knew he could blink. Startled, Sherlock jerked away instinctively, his eyes narrowed with silent skepticism.  
  
Molly’s heart seized with shame at his reaction, but she stood strong. Proceeding to point a finger at his face, she let all of her exasperation, distress, and anger pour into her words.  
  
“Oh, yes, _we_ ! I’m not a child, Sherlock, and I’m not an idiot! You shouldn’t have been here last night, either, and I _know_ you came back for those eyeballs, you _absolute sod_ ,” she hissed. “I got into my lab with the spare key card I keep in my desk, which, _thankfully,_ I managed to find-- and the fact that you were in here means you broke into the hospital with _my_ original badge. You knew I wasn’t supposed to be in tonight because I see you look at the schedule roster _every single day_ before you leave. The hospital tracks that--”  
  
“-- and Molly Hooper can’t be in two places at once. Not without the presence of an imposter. Me.”  
  
She set her hand back on her hip, stone-faced as she waited for Sherlock to process. She saw the split second later where his eyes unfocused and then re-entered the world up-to-speed. He finished with a grimace, appearing rather sour. “Ah, yes. It would seem the situation has become much more immediate. Not my best planning, is it?”  
  
“The situation wasn’t immediate before? Oh, we’re going to have a _long_ talk about you breaking into my office,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. Before, when she’d been humanoid and over six feet tall, he might have had the decency to look cowed. Now, however, he only looked a touch disturbed and otherwise amused.  
  
Sherlock didn’t look even one bit sorry as he quirked an eyebrow at her. “Very well, I apologize. I don’t suppose I have to tell you that I have inquiries of my own?”  
  
“After we deal with this mess, we’ll talk,” Molly affirmed, holding out a mop. “Okay?”  
  
He didn’t take it immediately, his features scrunching up thoughtfully. After holding it up for a near minute, she felt the beginning squeezes of dismay. They didn’t have time for this. They had ten more minutes, at best, to start some serious cleanup before the situation spun out of control. Whatever reservations he seemed to have, she needed him to make peace with them right now.  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” she whined desperately, catching his eyes. Swallowing down a thick lump in her throat, Molly placed her palm against his chest. “When, not if, people come looking, this room needs to be clean. Please, Sherlock. _Help me_ .”  
  
He caught her dainty fingers within his own, and she watched him read her desperation with trepidation. For all that he’d seen, with such little information, he’d had a fairly calm reaction compared to what she’d dealt with before. She didn’t kid herself that he could’ve chosen to act far different.  
  
Molly had been lucky so far; she was about to see how far she could run with it.  
  
“My whole life is on the line, and you aren’t the poster-child of honorable deeds, either. You _will_ get answers, but I need you to have some trust in me.” She squeezed his hand, emboldened.  
  
He didn’t pull away, and to her delight, she received one in return; a gentle grasp of pressure, and a silent reassurance. They both relaxed, strung and tired. She dropped her hand from his, and with a shake of his head, she knew she’d won.  
  
“You, Molly Hooper, are trouble,” he grumbled initially, but nonetheless stood to attention.  
  
A small smile graced her lips. “You would know; as if you aren’t causing trouble everywhere you go.”  
  
“Indeed, I am. A trait in my favor, I believe,” he chuckled, and the rich baritone trembled up her spine, sending a shot of warmth to her heart. “What do you need?”  
  
Like an echo from another life, she replied wholeheartedly, “I need _you_ .”  
  
When she held out the mop this time, he accepted it.  
  
“You’re in this now.”  
  
“It seems that I am,” he agreed.  
  
  
  
  
  
In a team effort, they managed to right her office. She even found a lovely emerald green sweater-knit and dress pants she’d left and forgotten at some point to wear. More importantly, once she started using Sherlock’s ability to notice things she would have normally overlooked, she managed to scrub the entire Morgue cleaner than it had ever been in her entire career. Feeling far less threatened and once more in some semblance of control, she elected that she had earned herself a proper shower.  
  
Granted, the chemical shower in the Morgue wasn’t technically meant for that purpose, but she was desperate.  
  
“You can go,” she told him. “If you want. Leave the room and stretch your legs.”  
  
She expected him to take the easy out, an excuse to leave so he could go spend time in his mind-palace, process the ‘data’, filter out the ‘useless’, and whatever else it was he did.  
  
Instead, he barely looked up at her. “Oh, spare me, Molly. I realize you want to bathe. Do so. I won’t look.”  
  
“I-I’m not going to shower with you in the room!”  
  
He cocked his head before turning to catch her expression. Almost as if adding insult, he quickly looked her over. “As you so helpfully pointed out earlier, _Molly_ , I have already seen you ‘ _naked’_ . You explicitly stated that I could choose to leave if I so wanted. I have chosen to stay.”  
  
She pressed her lips into a thin line, clutching her hands into fists at her side. “I was trying to be polite. I’d like to have some time to myself, and I thought you might, too.”  
  
Sherlock waved her off, unconcerned. “Much to discuss, Molly, and I have no intentions of leaving. Shower or don’t; it makes no difference to me.”  
  
Molly fought the urge to physically kick him out-- or at least _yell_ him out-- by biting her tongue, throwing up her hands, and turning on her heel. Gathering the clothes she’d found earlier, they were laid out with accompanying soap and a bath towel. She’d found a bath towel in the storage closet, and while it was a bit small, she would have to make do. For the soap, she’d just taken some antibacterial hand wash.  
  
Glaring at the back of his head as she undressed, the little woman turned on the water and played with the knobs until she got it as close to warm as she could. Scrubs off, she stepped into the spray.

Sherlock was in the corner of the room, examining a set of agar dishes he’d been cultivating over the last month. She’d planned to bring the subject up with him someday, of course. No one she knew had been able to stay around him long without having their skeletons exposed and hung to dry; for better or for worse. She had plenty of them, just as much as any other member of their unlikely circle; the difference was, for years, she had been careful. They were almost _purposefully_ sloppy.  
  
Earlier in her life, she’d had a fantasy of them dating, and then after years of working on a trusting, honest relationship, she would reveal her secret and be met with love and acceptance. Of course, he’d made it clear quite early on in their relationship that wasn’t going to happen.

 _Not to worry,_ she had thought, because eventually, the timing would be right, wouldn’t it? However, Sherlock was, at best, hard even for her to understand, and at his worst, utterly, mercilessly mercurial. Every day of her life post-Sherlock exposure was unpredictable, and there had never been a good time between the epic crime-fights and dramatic exits to sit down and chat with him about it.  
  
She hadn’t even known how to start going about it.  
  
_‘Hi, my name is Molly and I shamelessly eat dead people for nutrition,’_ was too likely to be taken as another one of her bad jokes, and anything else she’d come up with had always seemed too serious, too lighthearted, too joking. Instead, she had decided that she would tackle that issue when the time was right, except for three years straight.  
  
Eventually, she gave up on watching Sherlock in favor of the task at hand. She brushed the dried blood out of her hair and then proceeded to scrub down every bare inch of her body until all was clean, right down to the individual hairs on her head. For the sake of professionalism, she towel-dried her hair in a rush, hoping to salvage at least a hairdo out of the entire mess.  
  
After a moment to dry and redress herself in new clothes, Molly felt a bit more human, ironically.

With five minutes to spare, she sat at her desk, folded her arms, and waited.  
  
“So, well, I’m not sure how to talk about this, or how much you’ve already figured out, so,” she began awkwardly. “Where would you like to begin?”  
  
“What are you called?”  
  
She blinked. “What?”  
  
“Oh, _Molly_ , don’t be daft,” he gave her a conceitful eye-roll, waving his hand loftily, but the air buzzed with his nervous energy. “I’ve deduced you aren’t human, therefore what? _What_ are you?”  
  
She opened her mouth to answer but stopped. “Before I answer that, how much are you willing to know? Once I tell you this, Sherlock, I know you won’t be able to ‘delete’ it from the ‘hard-drive’. You won’t be able to go back.”  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. “That is concerning, because?”  
  
“Because you already notice a lot, and I’m worried your brain is going to go into overload just walking down the street. Once you know, you’re going to begin to notice the things you’re _really not_ supposed to notice.” She pursed her lips. “ _‘Lifting the veil’_ , so to speak.”  
  
He seemed to consider that and weigh it against her hesitance. Suddenly, he was across the room and staring down at her from the front of her desk, _anguished, aching_ for knowledge, and her resistance broke before he even spoke a word.  
  
He leaned gracefully across the table, crystalline smoke-blue boring down her soft brown. In a low, gentle purr, he enounced slowly, “I am _ineluctably, inexorably desperate_ to know, and I have never been more sure in my life. I swear it.”

Nervously, she began wringing her hands. “Swear you’ll never use any of what you’re going to learn against me, my family, or friends, first. Exact words, and _sincerely_ swear, full name and everything.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you would be willing to tell me why?” She shook her head.

He gave a long, weary sigh, but complied. “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, vow, that I will not bring harm personally or otherwise, to Molly Hooper, her family, and her associates.”  
  
Molly felt liquid warmth lick up her insides, and despite the desire to lean back and luxuriate in the feeling of it, she pushed forward. “I, Molly Magdalene Hooper, accept your vow of fealty, to provide utmost secrecy and protection.”  
  
She then held out her hand. “You need to give me something. You have no magic to share, and I don’t want to spill blood. A piece of hair would work, I think.”  
  
He reached up to rub a curl reluctantly between his fingers, “Is that necessary?”  
  
“I'm just covering my bases. As long as you follow the guidelines of the agreement, you’ll be fine.”  
  
He frowned but retrieved a pair of scissors off of her desk, clipping off a small chunk of black curls to present to her. “Enough?”  
  
Molly nodded, tentatively grasping the hair. She looked visibly revolted compared to his curiosity, but she put it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Quickly, she was out of her seat hunting for a bottle of water. Ultimately, she settled for the row of sinks in the corner.  
  
“That was vile,” she gasped, spitting the excess of out of her mouth. When she finally returned to her desk, she was still running her tongue over the inside of her mouth, shuddering.

“A _Ghūl Sí’lā,”_ she replied finally to his earlier question, her eyes searching out any focal point but his face. If she looked at him, it would be immediate game-over. She’d unwittingly focus on the lips, and then… oh, she was a mess. “My species is called _Djinn_ \-- and, no, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m not an alien.”  
  
“I see. Do we agree, nonetheless, that you are not ‘human’?”  
  
Molly briefly rose her eyes to meet his, before briskly flicking them away. “Y-Yeah, I would say that’s accurate…”  
  
_“Good girl,”_ he purred, and she smiled shyly before she could catch herself. “And your proper age?”  
  
She choked at that. “I really am what it says on my license, in human years. For the most part, we’re able to follow human aging standards. My sister is well into her hundreds, and she appears as a young woman. My mum is well into her four-hundreds, I think. We have… _abilities_... that allow us to circumvent our physical age.”  
  
Without notice, she stopped, appearing nervous. “Biologically and, um, _mentally_ speaking, I’m around my early twenties, and I’ll continue to be so for a long while yet.”  
  
He looked positively, delightedly bewitched, leaning into the desk. Despite the four-heads-worth of space between them, she blushed.  
  
“Is that weird?” Apprehensive, she bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. “It is weird, I know it is. Oh, I wish you hadn’t asked that...”  
  
Sherlock didn’t seem to mind; instead, he was regarding her with something she devoured quickly and gluttonously: respect. “You show far more intellect and good judgment than I did while functioning with the mindset of a twenty-year-old. I am… impressed.”  
  
Molly lit up like a Christmas tree, unable to help from grinning. “Really? _Despite_ the corpse-eating?”  
  
“Admittedly,” he replied flatly, to which she laughed. “Your mother is the same?  
  
She shook her head. “All of my kind are born as _Ghūl,_ and we change as we age. My mum and sister are _Mārid--_ I’d explain that if we had more time-- and my father was a human.”  
  
Nonplussed, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Interbreeding is acceptable?”  
  
“It’s not necessarily conventional, but rank determines your right to choose your union, and to be _Mārida_ is a _great_ honor.” She paused. “However, the completion of that union is a lot more difficult for the human party. The _Qarīn--_ every human, young, old, and including you-- have the _potential_ of spirit, and it's that which allows for biological interspecies compatibility. Bringing out and conquering that spirit is another ordeal. It takes years of studying sorcery, and even then, without a _Djinn_ to bond to, most use up their own life force and die young.”  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. “And those that do not?”  
  
“Nothing good comes from it. Even if an especially powerful sorcerer learned to draw power from an outside source, without the balance of an entity of equal or greater abilities, they’d likely go looney. There are other ways to circumvent that, but that type of magic is dark; it will ultimately corrupt the user, regardless.” _  
_  
“Magic is real, and I could potentially master a _Qarīn?”_ He clarified.  
  
“As real as the hair on your head,” Molly breathed, almost giddy. “ _Your_ _Qarīn,_ and if you were able to attract one, yes, potentially. It would be ultimately their decision to accept or reject, at least most of the time--.”  
  
Accompanied by a two-toned chime, the plastic and metal squelching of the Morgue’s door broke up her revelry. Molly swiveled back from the main desk to look around Sherlock, suddenly aware of her surroundings once again. Five minutes had gone by far too quickly, and Sherlock seemed to agree. He turned his head, displeasure at the sudden interruption rolling off of his character in heady waves.  
  
After two footsteps, his irritation only seemed to grow. Beside her, Sherlock quietly muttered to himself, _“Oh, sod off, Graham.”_ _  
__  
_ Molly glowered at him and gently smacked his arm. “Be _nice_.”  
  
Greg rounded the corner, none the wiser. “Ah, Molly! Exactly the one I wanted to see. Just a quick check up on a blip, got reported half-an-hour ago and--”  
  
The scene surely looked unusual; Sherlock, obviously displeased, was hovering over a seated Molly, hands planted firmly upon her desk. Molly, who leaned on the side of her chair in order to see around him, split into a friendly grin, unaffected. Lestrade stopped. “Am I interrupting something important?”

“Of course not, we were just having a talk.” Molly stood and walked around to meet him, even allowing him to pull her into a hug.

He leaned in, whispering. “Nod if that idiot was the one that set off the alarms, and I’ll give him a good lashing before I go.”  
  
When they broke away, she clasped her hands against her stomach and took a respectful step back. Instead of nodding, she leveled a flat glare at the hovering figure. “Sherlock, over there, nipped my card last night so he could steal eyeballs from my lab. That’s the blip.”  
  
Sherlock glanced over at Molly in alarm, as if she had insulted him, to which she ignored.  
  
Lestrade took on an air of exhaustion, watching Sherlock with a baffled expression. “Wh-- _What?_   For... what the _bloody hell’d_ you think you’re doing? If anyone finds evidence of that, I’ll have to arrest you, you bleeding idiot! You know that!”  
  
“I’ve returned it, haven’t I?” Sherlock moaned imprudently. “Lesson learned, Molly. May we let the subject drop?”  
  
Molly tapped a foot against the floor. “I’m still cross.”  
  
He looked no less petulant than before. “My actions were shortsighted and foolish, and if I understand correctly, the vow will not allow me to do it again. Isn’t that enough?”  
  
“For now,” she replied, unconvincingly disingenuous. Even so, she shifted her focus to Lestrade. “It’s fine, really. No charges for theft, or anything. I don’t think he’s going to do it again.”  
  
“I’ll tell them the situation is resolved; don’t think they’ll look further than that.” He turned to Sherlock and sternly pointed a finger at him. “ _Never again_ , Sherlock. Never again. Hold it over him for as long as possible, Molly.”  
  
She let out a suppressed giggle, shoulders shaking as she worked to stifle any noise. “I’m not letting him off the hook anytime soon.”  
  
“Good on you, Molly,” Greg praised, clapping a strong hand against her shoulder. “Good on you.”


	3. Begin Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly continue their chat; more members of the cast are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kudos, comments, and bookmarks-- really.

_ Begin again, I’ve been watching your kindness keep  
_ _ A lonely company, look at the fire and think of me  
_ _ I’ve been watching your creep around my wandering feet  
_ _ Trying for years to flee _ _   
_ _ \- Begin Again, _ Purity Ring   
  
  
  
Molly had attempted to remove Sherlock through several different means; she tried a polite suggestion first, which was of no avail. After she’d thrown him under the bus with Lestrade, he’d spent the entire ten minutes after his departure moping.    
  
She only felt a little bit bad. Really, he’d sort of deserved it. She hadn’t done anything that would be outside of her nature, and really, he was a grown man. Things would have gone much better if he could actually _ act _ like one.  Assured that she had made the right tactical call, she decided that if he was going to ignore her, she’d ignore him right back. Two could play the silent game, and she had far more to keep her occupied around the lab than he did.   
  
She spent nearly forty-five minutes going back between the centrifuge, her set of Florence flasks, and a box of cover-slips that were running a bit low. Doing her marks and crossing a few more cases off of her list helped, but he was always three steps away. It wasn’t enough to feel crowded, and normally, she wouldn’t have even thought to complain.

After a near hour of being shadowed at every step, she finally whirled to face him.    
  
“You know, Sherlock, I  _ really _ feel like you should go home and get some rest. I need time to think, and I’m sure you could use a rest.”   
  
“Nonsense. _ Dull. _ I’m quite well,” he replied, falsely chipper. He then pulled her ID out of his pocket in an offering, which only served to remind her that she’d never even gotten that back in the first place. Molly narrowed her eyes at the change of topic. “Would you prefer I return this?”   
  
“I would have  _ preferred _ that you hadn’t taken it in the first place...”   
  
“And you do have my _ sincerest _ apologies,” he assured her dolefully, offering the badge to her once more.    
  
She accepted it with due skepticism, but she couldn’t help the little shock to her system when their fingers brushed. Turning away to hide the fair bit of red likely filling her cheeks, she turned on her heel and walked the spare back to her office. Sherlock following in hot pursuit, she sighed when she realized she wasn’t going to get rid of him easily. 

She flinched when he flipped on the main overhead light and grumbled at his apology, brushing by to replant her possession back where it belonged.    
  
“I suppose doesn’t matter, anyways,” she remarked blandly, squinting. “After all, you took a vow.”   
  
He glowered with displeasure at the mention of it. “In pursuance of that matter, what are the expectations of this agreement?”   
  
“Oh, um, it’s just a standard oath of protection. You aren’t bound to me, or anything. If you disappeared tomorrow and we never saw each other again, the vow will never break, but we aren’t tethered in any way.” She shrugged dismissively. “If you tried to hurt me, you wouldn’t be able to complete the action. I don’t know how well it worked since, usually, that oath is made with healers and magic practitioners taking on a, well, metaphysical  _ consultant _ , but anyone can take it. This allows us to talk freely without having to worry about consequences. You can’t act against me, and I don’t have to worry you’ll share what you hear.”   
  
“Ah, a very clever oath indeed, Molly,” Sherlock rumbled.    
  
“I thought so; best I could do in a jiffy.” She agreed, then set her hands on her hips. “Now, will you go home,  _ please _ , and let me work?”   
  


  
  


  
She’d eventually gotten Sherlock to leave her be with the promise that she’d come to see him immediately after work. So, of course, when she got off, she went home.  
  
Poor Toby had gone the morning without food, not that he was exactly suffering from it. The fat orange tabby had certainly seen fitter days, but she couldn’t help but overfill his dish as penance for her absence, with an extra treat of catnip laid overtop. Maybe  _ she _ wasn’t experiencing the most out of her independent youth anymore, but that didn’t mean that her cat had to suffer. 

Molly didn’t linger much longer than she needed to, just enough to grab a coat, make sure any immediate affairs weren’t overlooked, and a quick meal to tide her over before she walked out the door. It was a fifteen-minute walk to his flat, and while she was likely better off hailing a cabbie or riding the express, London in the early night during the summer was her favorite.    
  
By the time she arrived, Mrs. Hudson had already gone down for her ‘ _ Herbal Soothers _ ’, to her disappointment. It had been nearly a month, the last time having been short but pleasant. She’d offered her assistance on an experiment Sherlock was conducting, only to be interrupted in the middle of it by the older woman. Molly had watched in awe as she’d badgered Sherlock into cleaning and doing chores for her around her flat, something she wouldn’t ever have personally believed him capable of if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.

She certainly hadn’t had any luck repeating that in the lab, either. It was a rare occurrence that he cleaned up after himself, even when she asked.  
  
He answered the door looking much the same as when she’d left, with exception to the waft of unscented soap on  him. She couldn’t help but inhale and draw closer before forcing herself to pause awkwardly mid-step. Unnoticing or uncaring, Sherlock stepped aside and placed a few fingers in the middle of her back to guide her in. Molly was forced to crush the sudden feeling of being drowned in anxiety. Instead, with an exhale to center herself, she looked around.   
  
The flat was cleaner than the last time she’d been here, to her surprise. The messily stacked books upon the window mantles were now shelved or aesthetically placed on desks and coffee tables. Next to the coaster on John’s tea table was a worn copy of  Niccolò Machiavelli’s _ “The Prince,”  _ stacked upon  _ “Crime & Punishment” _ by Dostoevsky. The soot and ash in the fireplace had been scrubbed and replaced with fresh burning logs. The fire in the mantle, along with the dim light of several antique lamps cast the room into angles and shadows.    


There were still bullet holes in the walls and thick, velvet, crimson curtains that hung heavy with dust. The foggy glass of the window panes cast the streetlights as tiny dots, and the moonlight pouring from behind Sherlock’s chair bathed his visage like an aura. It was warm, dark, and absolutely perfect for her.   
  
Molly looked around her, eyes wide. “Did you do this on purpose?”   
  
“Indeed.” He curled his lips pleasantly at her. ”If my conclusions are correct-- which they most certainly are-- you prefer environments of substantial heat and darkness, deserts, and large, mountainous caverns; conditions easily replicated in the modern home, office, or workplace.”   
  
“It could be warmer… and the weather is a bit nippy, true, but a few sweaters and a coat help,” she agreed, tugging at her sleeves. “How did you know that?”   


“Your blood pressure is considerably lower than that of an adult female of your age and height percentile, and your skin, unnaturally cold. Even in your current form, you presently average at twenty degrees Celsius. All of this information I am aware of because I have personally measured your temperature. Once while you were… _reclining_ , a second time when I took your hand after you awoke, and the third when I returned your badge.”  
  
Molly blinked, unsure how to feel about being turned into an experiment. “Um, okay.”  
  
Sherlock paid no attention to her, his expression growing glacial. “I was foolish. For years, I believed you simply had cold hands from poor circulation. That, or your diet, which can now be definitively ruled out.”  
  
“ _Right_.” She tried to smile at him but ended up as more of a grimace. “Hello to you, too, Sherlock.”  
  
There was a moment where he stood silent. Then, as if remembering her presence, he turned his head of curls towards her, as forcefully relaxed as he seemed to be able to manage. “My apologies. Mistakes made. Please, _sit_.”  
  
Molly settled into John’s chair, and Sherlock brought out a tea tray from the kitchen before sitting. The tea was no doubt John’s work. He sat, fingers steepled in a pose she knew well.   
  
She gave the upstairs a cursory glance. “Is John here? He isn’t listening in or anything, is he?”  
  
“He left. Wearing cologne, I might add; out with a woman, no doubt.” Sherlock painstakingly rolled his eyes. “John will likely not make an appearance until morning. Even so, I have taken the precaution of removing his key from his person. In the event that he was to arrive home, he and his guest will leave upon realizing he is unable to open the front door.”  
  
“ _Sherlock_.”  
  
He glanced at her, matching her bland expression with one of innocence. “It’s only borrowing. I plan to return it.”  
  
“I let you get away with too much.”  
  
“A quality in your favor,” he replied with a smirk.  
  
She reached for a cup of tea, deciding resolutely to let John handle it on his own. “I suppose we should begin again, then.”  
  
“You previously spoke about the _Qarīn_ _.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“_ Oh, right.” She took a quick sip of her tea, clutching the warm cup like a tether. “Um, where was I?”

“‘Your _Qarīn, and if you were able to attract one, yes, potentially. It would be ultimately their decision to accept or reject, at least most of the time,’”_ he mimicked, then stared at her flatly.   
  
“Oh! Of course,” Molly replied excitedly, setting her cup down on the table so she could tuck her legs under her. “You want me to just jump in, then?”  
  
“Unless it would be convenient to do otherwise,” he replied.  
  
“Okay. Well, if you decided to seek out a _Djinn_ , or one sought out you, it’s not a promise that anything will happen. A human is bound to the contract he makes with a _Djinn_ for life. I mean, you can circumvent that, but it gets harder as you move up the food chain.”  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”  
  
“You’d have to outgrow the magical capability of the bondmate or outlive them, both of which would probably be impossible. Likely, if the sorcerer is any good, he’ll choose to bond with a _Djinn_ from a… higher class.” She licked her lips. “There’s a very strict matriarchal hierarchy amongst _Djinni_. Race determines your magic potential, and therefore your rank. If one wants to be powerful, they’ll try to appeal to the _Khodam_ , if that fails the _Shaitan_. The _Mārida,_ while next, are… often too proud.”  
  
“And if that fails?”  
  
“The _Ifrit,_ usually. The _Si’lat_ happily bind to those of great intellect seeking knowledge, but not power. The _Jann_ , while a bit weaker amongst the six great tribes, sometimes grant requests or heal the sick on a whim. These days, most elect not to mingle with humans or form bonds, however.”  
  
Sherlock hummed; while his eyes were focused on her, his expression was glazed over. “Yet your mother chose a human companion.”  
  
“My mother chose to reside apart from our tribes and take up a human lifestyle, too, like plenty of us do. Someday I’ll have to go back. I mean, eventually ‘Molly Hooper’ will have to die. I’ll be fully grown by then. It won’t be appropriate for me to stay by the time I’ll be able to come back.”  


“I see.” He rumbled. “Are you unable to remain by choice?   
  
Molly pursed her lips, lowering her gaze. “Right now, I’m young and I have a hold on the limited capabilities I have, but with time, my control will become… less stable. When that happens, I’ll be too dangerous to stay here.”   
  
He curled his lip distastefully at the idea. “You are one of two competent pathologists. Molly, I must  _ insist  _ you stay. Your kind live long lives, and I cannot go without a capable doctor to run the lab. Is it so difficult to postpone your homecoming?”   
  
“Oh, Sherlock, if I disappeared tomorrow you’d move on. Someday I want to go home, see my sisters, my mother, my cousins. The other doctors in the lab are wonderful, you just refuse to work with them, or you scare off the good ones,” she pointed out defensively, brows furrowed as she picked angrily at her sweater. “Last time I called out sick, you threw such a fit that Michael went home in tears. He ended up asking for a transfer. I lost a wonderful intern that day!”   


Miffed, he asked, “Would you like another apology?”   
  
“No,” she sulked. “I want my intern back. He’s terrified of you. I tried to get him a raise and he wouldn’t come back even for _ that. _ I haven’t been able to find one half as good since.”   
  
Sherlock offered her a flat look. “When I convince your intern to return, will you stop talks of leaving in favor of alternative solutions?”   
  
Sipping her tea, she mourned. “There’s no way you’d be able to convince him.”   
  
“Have _ faith _ , Molly,” he replied, waving her off. “You have my word that Michael will return at the end of the week. Anything to stop this incessant begrudgement you have against me.”   
  
She offered him a demure smile. “I’ll just have to take your word for it.”   
  
Molly looked out the window and felt the call of the wild things, a seductive invitation to cavort and revel with her brethren, to free her form under the summer warmth and the moon. She turned away from the window, but the disappointment must have shown on her face because he was out of his chair before she could blink.   
  
Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and took a few steps towards her, and he seemed to be struggling with  _ actual _ guilt, finally. “I realize that perhaps I am not… _ alway _ s on my best behavior in your presence, and I do wish to apologize, and if you’ll allow me, I will…  _ attempt _ to comport myself better in the future. As a show of sincerity, may I ask you to escort me for a short walk?”   


She stared flatly, and he offered one of his hands with a short bow, the other still firmly behind his back. “I’m well aware that you desire to be outside; perhaps that would be better with company.”   
  
When she crossed her arms, his patience ticked as he visibly endeavored to keep himself from exasperation. She made him wait a minute like he’d done to her, but he was steadfast. With a sigh, she took his hand and let him pull her up to her feet; Molly decided she could live with letting him by when she caught sight of his beaming smile, apparently pleased with himself.  They went down the stairs and ended up strolling down the street, her face turned happily up to the moon and the damp light of the street lamps.    
  
“Used to be that our kind danced in the moonlit streets and whispered in the ears of Saudi Kings, except until King Solomon. People thought that we came as pre-wrapped Genies in bottles, after that. We also don’t grant wishes like they portray us in pop culture.”   
  
Sherlock snorted, strolling beside her. “ _ Dull _ ; I’ve never paid attention to mass social media. Waste of time.”   
  
It was her turn to try not to roll her eyes. “Is there anything you’d specifically like to know, then?”   
  
“How many of the people we pass are not human?”   
  
“You can’t tell, yet?”   
  
He cocked his head. “Should I be able to?”   
  
Molly considered that. “Most people can’t usually for at least a few days, as they become more aware of their  _ Qarīn _ , but that’s usually also after a bond is established to make that transition easier. You’re already naturally sensitive to your environment, so I thought it might come more easily to you without that, but it may just take a few weeks.”   
  
His face dropped into displeasure. “How disappointing.”   
  
“Sorry.” She shrugged. “I can still answer your question, though.”   
  
He nodded his assent.   
  
She glanced over the street, which wasn’t incredibly busy. She saw three that were close enough to feel, but she felt more surrounding them in the buildings; not many. England, even during the summer, was a bit too chilly for most of her kind.   
  
“Ten, maybe a few more. I’m not that sure.” She stuck her hands in her jacket pockets for warmth. “We value privacy. It would be wrong for me to reach out for an accurate count. I don’t want to disturb them.”   
  
He seemed contemplative as they turned the corner of the block. “They would be able to sense you. Very well. Have you spent your life in England up to this point?”   
  
“I was born in  _ Qaf _ , our Kingdom, but my mum raised me in Yorkshire. Went to primary school and then graduate school, just the same as a human child.” She wasn’t bothered by it. In fact, compared to her conceited sisters and cousins, she felt it had been a good lesson in humility for her. “When I have children, I would do the same, I think.”   
  
“Would?”   
  
“W-Well, there’s no need for me to settle down anytime soon. I’ve got a few thousand years to do it. More, depending… I may change my mind by then.”   
  
He was unable to hide his astonishment, and he paused mid-stride, much to her surprise. “How old was your father when he passed?”   
  
“Oh, my father was quite aged when he and my mum met,” she replied, watching the sky. “He was nearing his first millennia, and my mother was looking for a human  _ Qarīn.  _ He was a powerful healer, she was young and in an unstable period like I’ll eventually be. They fell in love, bonded, and once he helped her stabilize, they came to England. I have half-sisters and brothers from when my dad was younger and in previous romantic bonds, but I don’t know them well. It was always a bit too weird for me… too much of a significant age gap for us to have much in common. Most of them retreated from human society with their children long before I was born.”   
  
Sherlock cocked his head at her, eyes narrowed as he read her. “That disappoints you. Why?”   
  
“What’s the point of having a big family, if you don’t know who they are?” Her lower lip protruded in a pout. “I have hundreds of siblings across the globe, and I may never meet all of them. It seems silly, honestly.”   
  
“Oh, entirely,” he agreed, but his tone was soft.   
  
They began their walk once more, turning another corner, and she smiled up at him. “Would it be alright if I asked you a few questions, myself?”    
  
Sherlock blinked. After a moment of reluctance to change the topic, he conceded. “Very well, then.”   
  
“How does it work? Deduction, I mean. I-I mean, you’ve never explained it to me, but I’ve seen you do it, and-- I used to think you were a latent psychic, but now I just think you’re really…  _ brilliant _ . Which,  _ obviously _ , you are, but,” She pressed her lips together briefly, unsure whether or not to continue before she added, “How do you do it?”   
  
His lips curled slowly with every praise, and when she stopped, he purred, “Molly, it would be my  _ pleasure _ to enlighten you.” _   
_   
  


  
  
  
  
  
Molly and Sherlock returned to the flat in high spirits, she herself feeling a lightness of spirit she hadn’t felt for years. They took a jovial walk up the stairs, him in the lead, her hand is his, giggling hysterically over his last rather inappropriate deduction.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson? _Really?_ I thought they really were herbal soothers. Special tea or something.”   
  
Sherlock snickered. “Oh, it is indeed _special_ tea. Perhaps one you should skip before a drug test. However, you would already know that, hm?”  
  
“Me?” She squeaked. “And you wouldn’t?”  
  
He pouted, and that only made her start laughing anew, clutching desperately at her stomach as she struggled to breathe. She hardly noticed when Sherlock led her through the door, only to fall silent and drop her hand.   
  
John was seated on the old leather couch with a blonde woman, their hands clasped together. The moment had been tender, surely, but they were now both looking at Sherlock and Molly, both of whom were flushed from the brisk air and waiting awkwardly in the entrance of flat. Molly’s laughter ceased, caught in her throat.  
  
John squinted. “ _Molly?_ ”  
  
Surprised, she stepped out from behind Sherlock and gave John a wave. She dropped her hand back to her side, before shooting a questioning glance toward the ill-humored man beside her. He seemed disinclined to acknowledge anyone in the room, so she led the charge.  
  
“U-Uh, hello, John. Fancy seeing you here.”   
  
“Hello, Molly. Excuse me a moment.” John turned to his flatmate, who was already attempting a hasty retreat. “Sherlock, I want my key back. I know you took it, and I’m cross.”  
  
Immediately, the man delved a hand into his pocket and produced the key, swerving from his original path and tossing it to John sourly. “Yes, well, _John_ , you left reeking of desperation to get _‘laid’_. I had arranged for Molly to be over for private tea. Your returned presence was, _is_ … _unwelcome_.”  
  
The insult rolled off of John like he was a trained pro, barely acknowledging it had happened. That robbed Sherlock of some of the satisfaction, which only made his good mood drop further.  
  
“That’s why you made me…” Something seemed to dawn upon him, then, and he pointed a finger between Molly and Sherlock. The blonde woman next to him seemed amused by the absurdity of the situation, hands folded patiently in her lap. “Are you two…?”  
  
Molly gaped and stepped hastily away while Sherlock mirrored the picture of innocence.   
  
“What? No, _no_ , we’re not,” she threw her hands up. It had been made quite clear years ago that ship was never going to sail, and it wasn’t as though she and Sherlock didn’t ever hang out outside of work. It was just… very infrequent.   
  
With a graceful sweep, his Belstaff was removed and hung on the coat rack, and he left the doorway to stride into the kitchen. He sent an unsavory scowl in his flat mate’s direction. “ _Boring_. John, if you insist on romanticizing my every move, stick with your half-baked attempts at storytelling. At least on your blog, you have a willingly blind audience to charm.”  
  
“I like his blog,” Molly added brightly, turning to address Sherlock’s flatmate. “I think your blog is wonderful.”  
  
“ _Thank you_. See, the only one that doesn’t like the blog is you, Sherlock.” John pointed out.  
  
“Oh, _very good_ job pointing out the apparent,” he replied with fatigue, his voice thick with sarcasm. He turned to scrutinize the couple on the couch. “Now, do you plan to introduce your clever companion? She picked the lock, after all, did she not? How did you do it?”  
  
“I did,” the woman replied, lifting her eyebrow with a cool smirk. “Credit card and a pin. John gave it nice go, but he’s a bit useless when it comes to a good break-in, isn’t he? Mary, by the way.”  
  
“This is my girlfriend, which you would’ve already known months ago if you bothered to pay attention. Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes.” He then gestured. “That’s our friend Molly. She works at the Mortuary in St. Barts.”  
  
“Girlfriend? What happened to Sarah? Or was the last one Bridgette…” He then cocked an eyebrow at the girlfriend in question. “I mean no offense.”

Mary's lips curled into a smile. “None was taken.”   
  
John seemed to struggle with something for a moment, but with a deep breath, his voice stayed level, his hand tightening into a ball. “Sherlock, I ended things with Sarah over a year ago.”  
  
There was a shift of energy in the room, and Molly looked over. She stifled her surprise when Mary’s aura expanded through part of the room in a warm, bright gold against her blue, curling soothingly around John. When he relaxed, the women briefly locked eyes, and she held the gaze curiously until it was broken away.  
  
As soon as it had been there, it was gone, sucked from the room until only Molly’s remained once again. After counting a few breaths and clearing any expression from her face, she turned her gaze to Sherlock, but if Sherlock was able to see it, he made no comment nor physical cue.    


Instead, he almost looked impressed with the woman. “I tested that lock, myself. On another day, I must insist you show me how you were able to disable it. This is an unequivocal improvement upon the previous rabble you’ve dragged in, John, _do_ feel free to keep this one.”  
  
“I will, and absolutely not,” John interjected. “You don’t need any help to cause more trouble than you already do.”   
  
Sherlock gave an audible groan. “Any trouble caused is only done out of necessity for _The Work_. Now, Molly, I do believe we should call it a night.”  
  
“It’s best I head home, anyway,” Molly replied with a yawn, collecting her bag.  
  
Mary grinned and stood after capturing John for a passionate kiss that made Sherlock visibly recoil with disgust. He kept his silence, to Molly’s relief, but his patience was certainly thinning. She strode to the front door to stand next to the smaller brown-haired woman, buttoning up her coat. “I should do the same. Will you be at the clinic tomorrow?”  
  
“In the morning,” John replied. He flicked hopeful eyes towards her. “See you at lunch?”  
  
“The usual place,” she responded warmly.  
  
From the kitchen, Sherlock hissed through his teeth before appearing with a personable but utterly false smile.  
  
“Yes, yes, _very_ _charming_ ; a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Mary, I’m confident your lunch will be _lovely_ ,” he crowded the two women through the door, leading them out to the hallway. “Molly, the lab as per usual. An exquisite rest of the night to you both.”  
  
He closed the door, followed by the scrape of the sliding lock. The two women looked at each other and shared a brief moment of silence as John’s voice came muffled through the door, probably chiding him for being rude. Molly was still trying to figure out what exactly had happened, while Mary seemed agreeably humored by the entire ordeal.  
  
“He really has no idea how to interact with people, does he?”   
  
“Not really,” Molly replied in a half-smile, shrugging her shoulders. “But if you let him, he’ll grow on you. Like cancer, really.”  
  
“You know, John said the exact same thing to me the other day, but I’ll take it as a good sign since it was said affectionately on either account.”

“It’s true. He’s a good man under all of those… layers. “ She lifted her eyebrows, daunted. “Lots and lots of layers.”

Mary set a hand on Molly’s shoulder and laughed heartily, and the two women walked down the stairs of 221B Baker Street. “You and I are going to get on very well, Molly.”   
  
“I’d like that,” she replied. There was a moment of hesitant silence on her end as she considered the aura she’d seen about her earlier. She bit her lip before sliding her gaze up shyly to the buxom blonde. “Also, are you…?”   
  
“ _ Ifrit _ .” The warm, buttery-yellow aura around Mary brightened like a Watt bulb, and she smiled affectionately at the young  _ Ghūl _ . “Well met, sister. I didn’t think you’d noticed. You hid your surprise well inside.”  
  
She blushed at the friendly endearment, a tradition for  _ Djinni  _ of the  _ Six Great Houses,  _ and an address of respect. Molly hadn’t seen many of her kind around London up close, although they had influxed for the duration of the mild summer. Most disguised their auras too well for her to tell from a distance, and unless they approached her first during her rare ventures away from her home and her job, she was often too nervous to try talking first.   
  
“For your benefit, really,” she said cheerfully, smiling so widely the dimples in her cheeks came out. “If I’d reacted, Sherlock would’ve noticed, and I wouldn’t put it past him to make the right conclusions.”   
  
“‘Lifted-the-veil’ recently?” Mary asked conversationally.   
  
Molly’s smile transformed sheepishly. “At six fifty-five in the morning. This morning. It was an accident. I think he’s taking it well.”   
  
“You two are close friends, but you’re not dating, are you?” Mary observed mournfully, an expression of understanding. “I can tell you like him.”   
  
She considered how to respond to that. While she would have liked to agree, she wasn’t even sure what level of friendship she and he were on. She liked to believe that they were friends, and if she asked, he would likely agree that they were friends, but she didn’t really feel like he treated her with the respect of a friend. He kept her on a constant emotional yo-yo of flirtation followed by indifference, and even though she’d grown smarter than to take his flirtations to heart, the cupid’s arrow had already struck long ago.    
  
She also didn’t know of a lot of friendships that were so derogatively, purposefully insulting, especially given that he was more than aware of her feelings. She grimaced, unable to keep a small touch of yearning from her tone. “Is it that obvious? Sherlock really isn’t the  _ dating  _ type, and we’re more…  _ ‘Partners-In-Science’ _ than friends, which might really be for the best.”   
  
Mary seemed to consider this information as she hailed a cab, thoughtful. “I think he likes you more than you think. I heard you two laughing as you came up, earlier. He was genuinely enjoying himself.”   
  
The younger blushed shyly. “I’d like to believe that.”   
  
A cab halted and pulled to the side. Mary went climbing inside, gesturing for Molly to join her, to which she declined. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”   
  
Molly shook her head but smiled. “No, it’s a beautiful night and the walk isn’t long. Thank you for talking with me, though.”   
  
“I’ll text John for your number when I get home,” Mary told her. “We should get coffee, sometime. It would be nice to know someone from home.”   
  
Molly beamed. “Absolutely.”


	4. Control (Secretly Sorry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Molly meet for coffee; Sherlock starts a new case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't like this chapter much, but here it is anyways. 
> 
> 75 Kudos, guys! That's more than I expected. Thank you, really.

_I never dreamed you’d be such a terror, she says  
_ _Like she’s been living with a monster_ _  
_ _And she’s constantly anxious about_ _  
_ _Her relationship with existence at the present_ _  
_ _But anyway_ _  
_ _-_ Control (Secretly Sorry), JR JR  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time the next week had rolled around, Sherlock had mostly gone back to normal. Of course, mostly normal meant generous doses of accompanying silence on his end. The previous week had been filled with nonstop questions, and finally, after he’d shown up at her doorstep just before midnight begging her to let him watch her sleep, Molly had to put her foot down.  
  
He’d reasoned that, for the sake of science, he needed to compare the data from watching her sleep post-feeding, compared to her normal sleep cycle. Even for what she had been willing to allow him, there were three things she refused with absolute resolve: watching her sleep, watching her eat, and watching her change, be it her form or her clothes.

She felt that was reasonable; he did not. It did, however, quickly become reasonable when she threatened to ban him from the lab, John and Lestrade’s help happily included after his recent thievery.  
  
That breakthrough had led into establishing the new norm. She was able to work, and he hovered, but at least there was space and silence. Unfortunately, it also meant that their friendship/acquaintanceship situation had gone straight back to square one, and this time it was because of her.  
  
One step forward, two steps back. The same as usual, circumstances aside.  
  
She didn’t hold herself at any fault. If she was going to progress her friendship with Sherlock any, she wanted it to be in the right direction. Somehow, the borderline-stalking didn’t make her feel especially hopeful. Despite that, when he showed up from the beginning of her shift to the end, hissing and spitting at her colleagues, she bit her tongue until he started getting aggressive. Since they’d had a spat about that, he’d switched to mostly sulking.  
  
Somehow, having a moody, silent, six-foot-tall adult man nipping at her heels seemed even worse, but Molly was grateful just to be able to focus on work. She decided it was bad taste to look a gift horse in the mouth, and that she might as well look on the bright side. Sherlock didn’t seem to have any intentions of leaving.  
  
It was nearly half-past noon, and Molly was making marks on her chart when Lestrade came in. Sherlock didn’t deign to look up from the AmScope but he shuffled slightly closer to the woman beside him, and the policeman took in the atmosphere in with practiced adaptability.  
  
“Molly, Sherlock, nice to see you here.” He set a stack of papers down, but one folder remained in hand and she eyed it curiously. “New case, very strange. Actually, I’m sending a few bodies your way, Molly.”  
  
“Oh, thanks for the heads up, but I think one already came in.” Molly gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Richardson?”  
  
He chuckled. “That’s one of them. What did you find?”  
  
“Same as what Jimmy and Anderson did, unfortunately. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head,” she replied, curling her fingers into her lap. “No signs of trauma, but I would agree with Homicide. It would almost look like a suicide if the wound was a frontal impact, but… but, anyways, the lack of evidence was unexpected. Have you found anything else?”  
  
“Dead ends, and a second body just showed up. Same single gunshot wound; back of the head.” He looked genuinely confounded, scratching the back of his neck. “Lack of evidence, again. The crime scenes would look like they’re out of a Homes & Garden magazine if it weren’t for the blood.”  
  
Molly frowned. “I’m sorry… I wish I had more to offer. I looked for needle marks, narcotics in the body, everything. I even had the gunpowder residue analyzed. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the next one.”  
  
“We were able to identify the type of gun, but even the bullet was gone from the scene.” Lestrade shifted where he stood, his eyes darting over to Sherlock, who pretended not to notice at first. Only after she went to say something, he waved a hand through the air.  
  
“Oh, very well. Give it to me,” he sighed laboriously. “It’s obvious you came with the intention of bestowing it upon me, regardless, because your unqualified staff is too ineffectual to complete a standard homicide.”  
  
“I’m part of the staff,” Molly remarked with insult.  
  
“How could you possibly know that I’m here to give you a case from me walking in the bloody _door_?” Lestrade huffed. “We’ve not had it that long, and my officers are not ‘unqualified’ or ‘ineffectual.’”  
  
“I wasn’t including you Molly, do keep up. You’re an incompetent liar, _Gary_ . There are faint stains on the folder. No doubt coffee rings from being passed desk to desk. The edges are worn. Either your department is so underfunded it now recycles manilla folders, or your squad spent the last week picking at the edges of the paper while waiting for you to decide whether you were _ashamed_ enough to ask for help.” Sherlock paused, sounding far more annoyed than when he had started. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, _give me the case._ ”  
  
Lestrade glared at him for a few tense moments before resolutely shoving it across the table, more desperate than proud, apparently. “No evidence. Nothing. A bullet to the back of the head, but there’s no forced entry and nothing left apart from the body. Every family member has an alibi, and there are no motives. Try to solve _that_ .”  
  
“Watch me.” Sherlock was promptly up and around the table in a flourish with the folder in hand. After supplanting himself between Molly and Lestrade, he thumbed quickly through the contents, laying a few of the photographs from the scene on the counter. “Good… very good. Tomorrow, send your _least_ irritating officers, and I’ll conduct a search of the scene. Was Anderson on this case?”  
  
Lestrade deadpanned. “No. Not officially. He was called in for a second opinion.”  
  
“Wonderful, George. It seems you are capable of learning, after all.”  
  
“ _Greg_ ,” Molly and Lestrade corrected sharply in tandem, to which Sherlock ignored. He looked up at them and then promptly back down at the pictures as if he wasn’t sure why the other was still there.  
  
“Aren’t there criminals about that require your attention?”  
  
The elder of the two lifted an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get rid of me? I’ve been here five minutes.”  
  
“Obviously. You’ve completed your civic duty. Molly and I are _terribly_ busy.” He waved him off and turned away, consumed in the file. “You have my gratitude, _et cetera_. Your presence is unnecessary.”  
  
“I don’t mind you, Greg, you’re welcome to stay. We’re really not that busy,” she cut in, heaving a sigh. “Sherlock, this is my lab, and not yours. He can be here if he wants.”  
  
“Thank you, Molly. Can you, for once, not be a _prick_ , Sherlock?” Greg immediately looked at Molly and ran a hand over his face. After a deep groan, he let his hands fall tiredly. “I should go. Y’know. _Criminals to catch_ .”  
  
Molly pressed her lips together. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m the one who should be concerned about you.”  
  
“Well, I can’t leave work, so it doesn’t really matter. I was a sitter during graduate school. I can handle him.” Molly pointed out this out brightly, much to the displeasure of Sherlock, who glared openly at her.  
  
They exchanged a round of pleasantries as he shuffled out the door, and when Lestrade had left for good, she marched back in. Hands on her hips, looking incredibly unimposing, she set Sherlock with her best glare.  
  
“You need to apologize.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You can’t act like that!” Molly crossed her arms. “You’re a grown man. You need to learn to treat people better. You need to apologize to Greg.”  
  
He sniffed and flipped a photograph over. “I’m polite when necessary, and in this case, it was unnecessary.”  
  
“ _Wh--_ You--” She gaped at him momentarily, and then whirled. She gathered her bag and her coat from the hooks with the intent of returning to the downstairs mortuary. If there was a body coming in, as Lestrade had said, she might as well make the migration now. “Well, if you’re going to be rude, you can do it somewhere else. You have a case now, don’t you? Go home.”  
  
“Why would I go home?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow as he glanced over his spread of papers. “The lab here is far more sophisticated than I’ve got at Baker Street. What if I need it?”  
  
With a herculean amount of mental strength, Molly refrained from doing something she’d regret. She began putting back the microscopes, slides, and charts. “Right. Well, I’m shutting down the lab, so go home anyways. You can come back tomorrow. I need to work downstairs, and I think it’s best you leave for today.”  
  
He didn’t move. “I’m doing nothing to stop you from working in the mortuary.”  
  
“You're not? You’ve been disruptive for the past week every single time someone comes in, and it’s very distracting! You pick a fight with everyone! You just being here is distracting. My coworkers, Greg, even John! You brought him in yourself, and you still found something to argue about. I can’t listen to any more of it.” She logged herself out of the lab computer, locked the storage. “I don’t want to get into a tiff, Sherlock. Just, I-I need you to go.”  
  
He scoffed indignantly and sat on the stool at the far end of the lab. “As if you aren’t distracting. I’ve observed at least fourteen flaws in your work in the past hour. Fortunately, you corrected yourself before I did.”  
  
“Maybe that’s because I’m _distracted_ .” Molly felt like pulling out her hair. Instead, she calmly looked him in the eyes and asked, “If we’re distracting each other, then why are you here? Why are you following me around and pretending like you have something to do here?”  
  
A silence stretched over them, and lacking a response, he stared. Something akin to surprise washed over his face, as if genuinely, he was, for once, truly miffed by his own actions. Molly stuck her hands in the pockets of her lab coat, resolved to silently wait until he caught up with himself.  
  
When his jaw set in a line, she walked over to the door and held it open, gesturing for him to go. He stood, gathered his things and the file from Lestrade before somehow elegantly stomping out the door of the lab without so much as a goodbye. She locked the door and reflexively checked to confirm she still had her card.  
  
Whatever. Not her problem, anymore.  
  
Except for the next day, she dealt with a similar incident with Michael and Sherlock. She’d only just gotten her intern back, and if she hadn’t been able to get rid of Sherlock again, Michael had been ready to leave for him.  
  
After that incident, and another the following day, she banned him from the lab, which hadn’t gone over well.

Once she’d finished dealing with the fallout, Molly finally allowed herself to make a coffee date with Mary. She decided she desperately needed a friend that was stable, and whatever Sherlock was doing wasn’t working for her. She had gotten Mary’s number from John the night after they had run into each other at the flat, and after working up the courage to text first, the two women had been having amiable conversation since.  
  
Mary had invited her out for coffee days ago, but she had spent so much energy during the day trying to ignore Sherlock’s constant presence, and ignoring Sherlock on a normal basis was hard. Now, she could feel the bond of his vow tugging at her stomach every time he walked by, moved, talked, _breathed_ . By the time she got home every night, her first priority was to lock the door, close the blinds, turn off her phone, and revel in the silence. It was the only space where he couldn’t invade. At least, he hadn’t tried since the last time, with the sleeping bit.  
  
When she had wanted them to be better friends, this was exactly the opposite of everything she’d had in mind. When she’d wanted to spend more time with him, she thought she might come over to the flat from time to time. Instead, Molly was stuck with a belligerent, mostly-silent, gorgeously distracting companion around the lab or the mortuary.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been so upset, but everything he did seemed designed to frustrate her emotionally, sexually, or otherwise.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have minded if he had more to contribute, but most of the time he left messes everywhere he went and nipped at her heels. It was also hard to work when, at any given time, he was studying her from somewhere in the room. Sometimes he was blatantly looking over her shoulder during an autopsy, but most often he pretended to be busy in some corner of the lab.  
  
If she could’ve gotten him to be conversational, she would have been able to power through it, but every single attempt to try and get him to talk about anything other than herself had ended in failure. After a while, she gave up on that. Either way, he’d needed to go.

She passed by some sort of business type as she made for the entrance, looking around him in favor of trying to spot her friend. Mary was waving to her from across the room the moment she entered the shop. Walking up, she discovered a second cup already waiting for her, and Mary looking rather pleased with herself.  
  
Molly was met with a hug and a gentle pressure that released a whole day’s worth of tension and exhaustion. Mary’s warm energy washed over her, and by the time she pulled away, a physical and mental cleansing had taken place. If possible, that made her adore the woman even more than she already did.  
  
“I knew you’d be on time. I know you’re exhausted, so the first cup is on me. You seemed like a Vanilla Bean Spice kind of woman.”

Molly smiled and slid into the chair opposite of Mary. “Thank you... I was dreading having to go up to the counter.”  
  
“You’re not the first introvert I’ve known. You’re in good hands.”  
  
She gave Mary a grateful look before reaching down to try it. It was sweet, but not overly, and it had enough consistency to roll over her tongue. She let herself enjoy a few moments of feeling relaxed, just glad to be anywhere he wasn’t. Mary seemed more than obliged to accept the silence, tapping something out on her phone during the wait.

“This is so much better than the coffee we have at the lab…”  
  
“I stumbled upon this place a few months ago. I met John here, funnily.”  
  
Molly sighed dreamily. “That sounds so romantic. I haven’t had a bloke buy me coffee since Grad school.”  
  
Mary laughed and wiggled her eyebrows. “Maybe you should invite Sherlock here. I think you’ll get your cuppa.”  
  
She could help but laugh as well, covering her mouth as she tried not to choke on her drink. “Mary! Sherlock doesn’t feel that way about me, and I don’t think we’re on the best of terms at the mo. I kicked him out of the lab on Tuesday.”  
  
“Not the first time, and probably not the last time. He’ll get over himself.” The woman rolled her eyes and leaned back, smirking. “Also, how do you know that? From what you were telling me, you’re the one that can’t get away from _him_ fast enough. He’s been glued to your side since the oath-bond, hasn’t he?”

When Molly was silent, Mary grew a bit more serious. “What’s wrong?”  
  
She was initially hesitant to answer. “We didn’t go through a proper oath-bond. You’re the only one that knows about the oath, and if you weren’t _Djinni_ , I wouldn’t have said anything when we met. You were just… there, and I was so stressed about the entire thing... ”  
  
“You haven’t taken him in front of your Matron, yet?” Mary’s features scrunched into something unreadable. “You aren’t old enough to accept a proper oath-bond. I’d thought perhaps he’d taken it with your tribe.”  
  
“That would have left him stuck with me. He didn’t find out on purpose, I can’t force him into that kind of commitment. He would hate being stuck to my side…” Molly paused. “I-I remembered an old binding ritual of the _Jann_ tribe my mother told me. I knew there were a few ways to do it, but I just chose one.”  
  
Mary’s eyes narrowed, lips puckered. “I think I know the ritual. Can you describe it?”  
  
“Well, you’re supposed to receive an offering of blood or a scrap of flesh, but that was a bit too garish for my tastes… I had him state his intention, I accepted, and then I accepted… well, a piece of hair. That’s the only other thing I could think of that would work.”  
  
The elder of the two began laughing. “Brilliant! I wouldn’t have thought of that. Did it work?”  
  
Molly remembered the way it felt as though warmth had washed over her, like prickling bubbles in her bloodstream.

“It felt like it did. My body felt warm. I felt safe. I still do, so… I think so. I’m, er, _more aware_ of Sherlock. I feel a tether between us now, and it gets thinner when we’re far away, but it isn’t very bothersome. More like a psychic connection than anything. The longer we’re apart, the grumpier he gets, but it’s the same for the longer we’re together. I have to force him out the door, and yet he can’t wait to leave.”  
  
Mary shifted in her seat so she could set her chin in her hand, taking a sip of her coffee with the other. “Do you think maybe it worked too well? Maybe Sherlock has been hovering because he feels that link, but he’s unequipped to deal with it. Does he practice magic at all?  
  
“No, he didn’t even know our world existed.” She blinked. “I hadn’t even thought of that. To be honest, I should have waited on the oath, but I panicked. I never know how he’s going to react, and I didn’t want to take the risk that he would tell someone or call John.”  
  
“No, I completely understand,” Mary insisted, nodding empathetically. “I just hope you didn’t unknowingly sign off for more than you wanted. Bonds are serious. Sherlock, however distant and independent he is, is still human. It would be hard for anyone to resist magical compulsion if they don’t know they’re being affected.”  
  
“You’re right. Oh, I’ve made a bit of a mess with this…” She rubbed her face. “Maybe I should find someone to look into this.”  
  
“Have you considered consulting your mother?”  
  
The brunette blanched a stark white, her eyes widening nervously. “Absolutely not! After not telling her about any of this? No, no, I-I can’t take him to my mother. Can you try looking into it?”  
  
Mary sent her an expression of pure sympathy, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “ I tried when we hugged, and there’s a barrier I can’t cross. If I could help, I would, but I don’t have the power to contest the oath-bond of a _Mārid_ . ”  
  
“I’m not one, yet.”  
  
“No, but you will be. Your magic is strong, even now. I don’t believe it would go well if I tried to interfere.” Mary squeezed her hand comfortingly. “Go talk to your mum. Figure out what’s going on now so you can save yourself some trouble later.”  
  
Molly felt her heart clench nervously. “You really think I should?”  
  
“I really do.” Mary’s lips pricked into a small smile, and she nodded. “The worst that would happen is a forced removal of the magic tethering you both.”  
  
She flinched. “I’ve seen that before, and I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.”  
  
“The pain wouldn’t last forever, and I’ve heard weak bonds are hardly painful at all.”  
  
Molly considered that as she sipped down the last of her cup. It seemed like the obvious solution, and once she brought the whole thing up to Sherlock, perhaps he’d agree. “I’ll… give my mum a call and see what she thinks. Thanks for the advice, Mary.”  
  
“I’m sure I’ll be giving it again soon enough. Want another coffee?”  
  
“I shouldn’t, but yes.”  
  
  
  
  
Molly was snuggled into her blankets, up to her eyes in soft microfiber and surrounded by warmth and darkness. Some routine criminal investigation show was playing, something where she could laugh at the absurdity. In fact, despite procrastinating on the phone call to her mother, she’d been having a rather fantastic night to herself. Toby was curled up in her blanket, she had a warm cup of tea next to her, and she was in her rattiest, comfiest pajamas.  
  
Just short of taking a bath and reading a book in a robe in her bed after a professional massage, she was about as relaxed as she could possibly be. Which only made her curse the knocking even more.  
  
It had started five minutes ago. Sometimes in a rhythm and sometimes tapping out to something. Every once in awhile, a voice called out with it. She knew who it was, and she wasn’t going to answer. After turning up the TV hadn’t drowned him out, nor had her obvious dismissal, she let herself briefly mourn.  
  
Molly really didn’t have any choice but to answer or call John, and since John would take too long before someone would complain about the noise, she wasn’t willing to wait. Having to pick Toby up and put him aside broke her heart, but as she neared the door she noticed the urgency of the knocking.  
  
“Molly! _Molly_ , open the door, _please_ .”  
  
“Sherlock?” At that, she rushed to the door, alarmed. She fumbled with the deadbolt for a moment. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”  
  
He let out a moan. “Just let me in, please.”  
  
She pulled the door free and took in his frantic energy, frazzled appearance. He stunk of adrenaline, and she observed the contractile dilation of the iris, his limbs alert and buzzing. After one last pass over his bewildered expression struggling to appear calm, she immediately understood.

Concern and excitement replaced her frustration, and she let him in without hesitation. Molly led him to the couch and sat him down. He grew quiet upon entry, so she let him be. Using one of her nicer tea trays, she brought out a fresh kettle for them both.

“‘Lifted-the-veil’ is… a very accurate description.” He leaned forward in her chair and folded his hands together. “I was beginning to consider the possibility you were somehow drugging me with hallucinogens.”  
  
Molly poured each of them a cup and then retreated back to her couch, looking astonished. “You think I’d be able to drug you? As if I know how to even find that? I’ll take it as a compliment, I guess. I’d put it in your cuppa or something.”  
  
He curled his lip unhappily, looking over the tea. “Yes, well, given that you’ve performed no magic since the initial day, forgive me for considering an elaborate trick as a possibility.”  
  
She crossed her arms and leaned back, pulling the blanket with her. “You thought I might be lying?”  
  
“After seeing your fantastical spectacle, I wished to confirm what I believed I saw,” he muttered, turning away from her to set his head in his hands. “I thought you might perform eventually, and yet, nothing.”  
  
She shrugged and burrowed even deeper under the blanket. “Why would I use magic at work? I’ve got perfectly good hands and feet, Sherlock.”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation and she watched in confusion. Molly thought he’d been coming to beg for usage of the lab or confront her about the weird side-effects of the oath-bond. Neither of those were conversations she’d wanted to have, and this topic wasn’t much better.

  
Sherlock eventually tilted his head back in her direction, eyes narrowed with distrust. “Perform something, anything. Right now, Molly. I have been very calm, and have I not been patient?”  
  
“I’m not going to just summon magic because you’ve asked me to. You can see into the veil now, you obviously know I’m not lying,” she replied to his increasingly icy snarl. Flinching uncomfortably, she sat up and pulled one of her hands out from under the blanket. “Are you sure? Just something small?”  
  
He gestured for her to stand, waving his palm vertically until she got the message. There, standing in her comfiest, most unflattering pajamas, hair up, she raised one of her hands.  
  
Molly heard Sherlock’s intake of breath, felt anticipation towards the event, despite remaining stoic. In the brief moment from one inhale to the next, she raised a hand and water welled in her palm. Instead of spilling out of her fingers, little droplets slipped into the air and condensed until she held a self-contained bubble that sloshed as she moved.

She pulled her hand away and allowed it hover in the air, her brows furrowed with concentration as she forced it to hold the shape she’d given it. The borders wavered only briefly, and she stepped back to give the buoyant, watery bubble a slow push in his direction. Sherlock didn’t move, but the closer it came, the more he seemed to ache to at least reach out and touch it.

  
When Molly realized that he was waiting for permission, she gestured to it with her hand tiredly, and he was on it like a starving dog. He cupped it in his palms, studied it, bounced it between his hands.  
  
“Are you controlling it?”  
  
“What?” Molly blinked, following his movements. “U-Uh, sort of. It’s hard to explain unless you experience it yourself.”  
  
Sherlock appeared unamused. “Attempt to.”  
  
She moaned softly, rubbing at her forehead. “Um, okay. Well, it’s like walking, I guess. Or breathing. It just happens without really thinking about it. It just _is_ . Like a reflex. When I created that I had to think about it, but that’s because I didn’t have water to pull from, so I took the moisture out of the air.”  
  
He seemed to lose interest, so when it floated back her way, she waved a hand to disperse it. It parted into a fine mist that covered the room, and she struggled for a moment to tweak the magic in the right way. Eventually, she succeeded.  
  
Sherlock steepled his fingers. “Again. Something different.”  
  
“What?” Molly squeaked. “No! No, absolutely not. It’s late. Sherlock, you should go home. I have some things I need to do.”  
  
“Like call your mother?” He refrained from rolling his eyes when she physically jumped with surprise, leaning his head toward her coffee table. “There’s a note, Molly. Pay better attention.”  
  
Molly darted forward to retrieve it, folding it in her hands and setting it aside under her television. “T-That’s none of your business... I just need to ask her something.”

He chortled, eyes sparkling with curiosity. She shouldn’t have said anything. “May I ask what?”  
  
“No, please don’t,” she groaned softly. Crossing her arms, she urged him towards the door. “Are you going to be able to make it home okay?”  
  
“Are you offering me accommodations?”  
  
“I-I, no. I’m not. You’ll be okay. I’m sorry.” She fumbled for the doorknob, blustering. “Let me know you got there safe, and call next time.”  
  
Sherlock reluctantly moved towards the doorway, expression sour. “When has that ever been necessary before?”  
  
“Since you started showing up all the time unannounced! At my house, at my work; it’s more than usual. Sherlock, can’t you dial it back?”

“I was under the impression that you enjoyed my company, Molly?” He almost looked hurt, and she didn’t buy it for a second.  

“Okay.” Molly drew in a calming breath. “I do. I do enjoy your company, I just also need some space. As in, maybe I’ll just see you tomorrow at work if you come in. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock sniffed, looking away from her, and she huffed in response to the dramatics. “Why bother? You’ll only kick me out.”  
  
“Only if you don’t behave yourself. I banned you because you’re scaring away my coworkers.” She opened the door a bit wider. “Tomorrow, Sherlock. If you’re nice, I’ll lift your ban. Okay? Go home.”  
  
He waited at the threshold only for a moment, but after throwing a sulking look her way, he stepped through to the other side and stared vacantly down at her. “Very well. I’ll… attempt to adjust my behavior towards your peers. Are you satisfied?”  
  
Molly gave him a long, fixed look, tapping her fingers against the door. “Just _behave_ yourself. Get home safe.”  
  
She turned and shut the door before he could silvertongue her out of it, setting her back against it. When he made his exit outside from her flat and she saw him marching down the street from her window, Molly allowed herself to relax and heave her body back to her chair.  
  
She really needed to call her mother.


End file.
